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Something Went Wrong with My Baby
I have been a new mother for a few months now. As you can imagine, it was an amazing experience for me; holding my baby boy for the first time in a hospital bed felt unreal. It probably sounds cheesy, but I believed my baby was the most beautiful baby in the world. And a healthy one at that. We did all the screenings and everything turned out OK. I left the hospital a day later, thinking this was all a dream come true. Little Andy wasn’t really a crybaby. In fact, I don’t really remember a time he’d cried during those first days. I think I was still wearing rose-tinted glasses of motherhood to actually notice that. But time went on and the fact that a few-day-old infant hadn’t yet shed a single tear started to thaw my enthusiasm. I asked my doctor about this. She explained that it happens, that some infants are simply less vocal than others. Andy might express his needs differently and would probably cry only when in distress. She added that I should keep an eye out for any other abnormalities and, with a hint of amusement, suggested to treat this as a blessing. I returned home and started paying more attention to Andy. The doctor was right, Andy wasn’t really vocal. Most newborns only observe the world around them, but he seemed even more reserved. This aloofness applied to everything he did: he barely ate, slept less than an average baby, and when approached, would only stare at the observer without losing eye contact. He had astounding blue eyes and a lot of wrinkles around them, and because of that, he had a constant perplexed look on his face. Like he couldn’t understand what was happening to him. My husband Ray and I thought it was adorable at the time. When Andy was about two weeks old, he started to become more erratic. He would lie in his crib, looking at his twiddling arms and legs and putting his hands in front of his face. He would open his mouth, his face clutched in a flustered expression, gasping for air, grunting, and snorting. The first time I saw it, I was unnerved as it seemed like he was having breathing problems. I tried the Heimlich manoeuvre on him, but, unsurprisingly, it only intensified Andy’s agitation. I called the doctor who assured me it wasn’t anything dire and we can wait till morning to take Andy for a check-up. With a feeling of uneasiness in my mind, I decided to call it a day. At three in the morning, Andy let out his first cry. It was a scream I have never heard before. I woke up from a nap on the couch and froze at the sound of utter despair. It didn’t seem to belong to a baby. It was one loud wail on a single inhale that would rip a grown man’s throat. If I wasn’t seeing Andy in his crib, with his mouth wide agape and his face red in intensity, I would have thought someone was being murdered nearby. We took Andy to the hospital immediately. During our ride, he stopped screaming, only to breathe in and cry again. By the time we reached the reception desk, Andy had already taken his third long breath, his voice turning into a low, hoarse bawl more similar to a sound of a dying animal than a baby cry. The doctors took him in immediately and used mild sedatives to calm him down. Ray and I spend an hour in the waiting room, still shocked and with ringing in our ears. When we saw Andy again, he was in a half-sleep state in a nurse’s protective embrace. Ray asked what happened. The nurse looked as worried as we were. According to the doctors, Andy was fine. No injuries or trauma, not counting a damaged throat from all the shouting. No reasons for such a reaction. “It’s like he had… a crisis or something,” the nurse said, leaving us with more questions than before. They conducted more tests on Andy, checked his blood pressure, brain waves and other things. Nothing abnormal was found, but the doctors suggested to seek help in another medical facility almost two hours away from here. There, we continued with the examination, but the results remained the same. We were left with a prescription for a throat soother and send home. For the next few days, the erratic behavior continued. Andy kept wriggling like a chained down lion trying to escape. He couldn’t cry any longer due to his damaged throat, but continued with deep guttural grunts. It seemed like he wanted to say something. Whenever I looked down at him, his eyes locked with mine, staring at me with an intensity no infant should be able to experience. Then the pounding began. It started one morning when I was talking to Ray. Andy was lying in his crib, unusually calm. We assumed he was still asleep. When none of us was paying attention, he wriggled himself towards the end of the bed and, weak at first, started to pound his head on the plastic tube of the side rail. We heard it immediately, but it took him three seconds to regain his strength and thrash his forehead against the tube with a long bang. By the time we reached for him and wrapped him in a blanket to secure his limbs, Andy had already fractured his skull, ending with a red, swollen bulge above his eyes. Every time Andy was able to move, he tried banging his head on every hard surface he could. It didn’t end with pounding, though. Andy could charge at everyone who took him in their arms. He would slam, hit and kick with all the strength an infant possessed, only to startle people and make them let go of him. Andy fell down to the ground multiple times, injuring himself to the point of surgery, but never let out a cry of pain. Instead, he would start bashing his head on the floor, ignoring the broken bones and bruises. My baby boy was forced to be tied down like a lunatic. Almost regularly sedated and under constant supervision, Andy spent several weeks in the hospital. At first, only his mouth and eyes weren’t restrained, but the moment his throat recovered, the inhuman cries returned. Now his eyes were the only part he could control. I remember him staring at me with no end, muzzle in mouth, almost begging me to do something. I only watched him back and sobbed. Ray took time off work. I spend almost every hour in Andy’s hospital room. The view of an IV attached to his tiny, fragile arm made me cry every night. I wanted to help him so, so much. We met with maybe a dozen doctors who tried to cure Andy. Some from other states, some from Asia and Europe. Almost every one of them implied some kind of psychological trauma, but that was it. I grew irritated with it. All those smartasses thinking they know everything while my baby was suffering. It was Doctor Neha Bachchha who came up with a solution. After she examined Andy, she took me to her office for a discussion. I thought she would babble about some brain trauma that didn’t exist, but her train of thoughts took a completely different route. I listened to her confounded, trying to process what she was trying to say. “Do you believe in reincarnation, Mrs. Wayne?” she asked with a strong accent. “I don’t really think so,” I replied. Doctor Bachchha continued, “When we die, Mrs. Wayne, our souls don’t disappear. Instead, they wander among the other dead, until they find a new life they can inhabit. They find a pregnant woman and possess her baby to continue the life cycle.” I listened to her, gripping my purse with shaking hands. Doctor Bachchha’s voice was calm and soothing, like a warm bath after a long day. She seemed confident in what she was saying. “The moment they enter a new body, the memories of their previous life start to disappear. They start anew. That is why none of us remember our infant years. Then the child grows old and dies, and their soul finds another body to inhabit. The sheer amount of memories stored in one soul would be too much for one living human to comprehend.” “What is happening to Andy, doctor?” I asked. Nothing else mattered to me. Doctor Bachchha took a moment to collect her thoughts. “I think… something went wrong with Andy. He was supposed to forget his previous life and start a new one as a baby. But he didn’t. His body is of a two-month-old infant, but his mind might be of a much older person. A person with their own memories, thoughts, hopes, and dreams from God knows how many years. If suddenly you were trapped in a baby’s body, Mrs. Wayne, what would you do?” “I—" my voice shook. I remembered the screams, the suicide attempts, the longing stares of someone who wanted to say something. When Andy was five months old, I hunched above his crib. His eyes looked at me with distress, his mouth in constant motion, articulating a string of single syllables. His attempts to talk took several weeks, but I waited patiently. “Mah… Mah… Maah…” I listened in silence, only the evening buzz of the hospital halls murmuring behind my back. Ray was home, trying to rest after taking a mouthful of sleeping pills. I haven’t told him about my conversation with doctor Bachchha. Maybe because I wasn’t sure I believed in it myself. Maybe because I needed proof. Andy’s face scrunched in agony, a violet bruise above his barely opening eye blistered in the light of the lamp. He was still restrained, but after he stopped with the screaming (probably because he wasn’t able to raise his voice any longer) the nurses allowed me to remove the muzzle. I’m pretty sure Andy understood what that meant because, after that, he focused all his strength on speaking. Every day I heard him verbalising; first it was cooing, then single sounds, then vowels, then two-syllable words. Despite his injuries and suicidal tendencies, Andy was doing all he could to say something. Five months earlier, the thought of Andy’s first words would make me grin in joy, but all that was left in me was some kind of cool-headed numbness. “Maaah… Maah…” “Yes?” I don’t know why, but I whispered. Andy’s only good eye glimmered with hope. I leant even more over the crib, gripping my hands on the bars. “Mah it top…” “Make it stop?” I asked. What I can only describe as a dreamlike state where everything irrational seems normal, Andy nodded his head in agreement. Category:Reality